


Vague Fancies & Carnal Appetites

by notlucy



Series: MCU Kink Bingo - NotLucy [12]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baking, Bucky's weird sex brain, Creative usage of kitchen equipment, Dom Bucky Barnes, Dom/sub, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Gags, IDK I just work here, Kitchen Sex, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Possessive Behavior, Spanking, Sub Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 14:11:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13615023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/pseuds/notlucy
Summary: Sometimes Steve forgets that he belongs to Bucky. Fortunately, Bucky's a real pal - one who doesn't mind figuring out creative ways of reminding him.





	Vague Fancies & Carnal Appetites

**Author's Note:**

> This fills square I-4 of my Kink Bingo Card: possessive behavior.

Steve was on the television kissing babies but the blond anchor said, “earlier the Avengers…” so Bucky knew he’d be home soon. The blond anchor annoyed Bucky, so he never bothered to remember his name, just called him Patrick because he was almost sure a kid named Patrick beat Steve up in an alley once.

Bucky’d been lying under the dining room table for an hour, and he could just see the television from his prone position. The original idea had been to fix the wobbly leg, but he’d gotten distracted by the way the whole thing fit together. Four legs, screwed in, tabletop with a join down the middle because there was an optional leaf, currently stored in the linen closet. Who decided to call it a leaf? Why not just have the whole table? They’ve got enough room for a whole table in this big place, bought with Steve’s Captain-fucking-America money, but they leave it leafless.

Ha, leafless.

Anyway, Bucky’d been distracted by the leafless table and wondered if this one would hold up when Steve fucked him on it. This new table was from a real furniture store, made out of real wood. Not like the Mörbylånga table they’d bought from IKEA when they first got this place.

Bucky had spent forty-five minutes stuck on a Mörbylånga loop until Steve kissed him out of it. They broke the table twenty minutes later, turning fine Swedish craftsmanship into so much particle board and despair.

This new table was their fourth table. Bucky had gone out to lunch with Sam and Natasha earlier in the week, and the topic had come up. Not table fucking, exactly, but close enough that Bucky had felt compelled to explain their predicament. Sam had suggested maybe they just stop doing it on tables.

Bucky had thrown a breadstick at his head.

He kind of wanted a breadstick now, so he rolled out from under the table and pushed himself up, flipping Patrick the bird as he headed into the kitchen.

They didn’t have breadsticks, and Steve was still playing on a loop in the background.

Bucky hated it when Steve was on the television. Hated when other people’s eyeballs were looking at him. Hated that Steve let them. Those eyeballs thought they knew him better than Bucky because they’d seen him pop some bad guys in the jaw. Thought they understood what it meant to love him because he smiled that big Cap’n Crunch smile and waved at the crowd with all his pals.

The world could have the Avengers. Steve was just for Bucky.

But sometimes Steve forgot so Bucky would have to remind him.

Breadsticks first.

Kitchens didn’t have personalities anymore. Bucky couldn’t remember, not exactly, but he had some idea that his ma’s kitchen had been warm even in winter. Sticky hot in the summer, his head in the icebox, a little girl’s voice threatening to tattle on him for wasting the cold. Dark stews, greasy hobs, the way the grout never got quite clean but ma kept scrubbing it anyway. There had been a butter crock on a shelf, and it was his mother’s mother’s mother’s, maybe? Music on the radio, she was singing. Dark hair, blue eyes, sharp smile. Dead and gone.

This new kitchen was big. Shiny and deceptive. Cabinets, chrome, humongous island floating in the middle of a hardwood sea. Marble countertops that made Bucky want to snap them in half and run his fingers along the veins inside. Grind them into dust and lick them up so he could be part of whatever mountain in Italy had its guts ripped out so he and Steve could have a kitchen without a personality.

If he did that, though, he wouldn’t have any place to roll out the dough.

Steve came through the front door as Bucky was picking the mixer up from its spot on the counter by the window and bringing it to the too-big floating island where it could do its essential work.

“Buck?” he called. Bucky could hear his stompy Cap’n Crunch boots squeaking on the floor of the entryway like a ferret. Did ferrets squeak? Probably.

“Kitchen.”

Squeak, squeak, little ferret.

“Hi,” Steve said, leaning on the jamb of the double doorway (“open concept!” God, Bucky hated the realtor), and raising one beatific eyebrow, like some big, dumb sunflower. Bucky liked him a lot.

“Mad at you.” Because he was.

“Oh?” Steve replied. “Tell me about it after I shower.”

“No.”

Abrupt ferret murder, Steve coming to a stop mid-turn.

“No?”

“Uh-uh.” Bucky pointed to the island, suddenly relieved it was so- _fucking_ -gargantuan because there was room for breadsticks and Steve - both things he wanted in equal measure. “On your front.”

The first time Bucky had tried giving Steve orders, he’d had a panic attack, ending up a shaking, shivering, vomiting stress ball curled up in the corner of their bedroom closet like a malfunctioning chihuahua. He was better at it now.

Steve was still lousy at obeying, of course, but sometimes he tried. Walking over with the world’s most obnoxiously bemused expression on his punk face, he bent at the waist and flattened himself against the countertop, stretching his arms out like Jesus H. Christ. Fitting, considering what a goddamn martyr he happened to be.

Bucky grunted, ignoring Steve’s dramatics and plugging in the mixer. Ingredients were next. No, wrong, recipe was next. He picked up the StarkPad they kept in the kitchen for Bucky’s recipes - and wasn’t that just the height of fucking luxury and capitalism and bullshit? A whole tiny computer for your breadsticks because sometimes your boyfriend was on the television.

“Quit moving,” Bucky said, walking behind Steve, who was valiantly attempting to hump the countertop. Typical Steve - Bucky giving him orders was a one-way ticket to his happy place. That massive disaster of hormones and lousy decision making between his legs ruling the roost while giving his brain a much-needed vacation. Bucky considered smacking him on the ass because it looked so nice in his Cap’n Crunch outfit, but he didn’t, because number one, Steve would like it too much, and number two, _Bucky_ would like it too much.

“Sorry,” Steve said like he wasn’t. “How come you’re mad at me, pal?”

“You were kissing babies on the television.”

Steve got a smirk on his face, and Bucky still wasn’t gonna smack him, but his hand was itching so he went to the pantry to get the flour down instead. “You don’t like babies now?”

“Don’t like _those_ babies,” Bucky corrected. “Looking. Everyone’s always looking at you. How come you let ‘em?”

“I don’t let them.” Steve turned his cheek, eyes following Bucky as he brought the flour back to the counter then went searching for the yeast. “I can’t help people looking at me.”

“Excuses, excuses.” Aw, to hell with it. He popped Steve right on the backside as he passed because he liked how resilient the suit felt when he hit it - like reminding himself Steve was safe as houses in the field because of the serum and the suit and the shield. Because Steve did dumb stuff, but he had good people and good equipment at his back. Plus, his ass looked interesting when Bucky hit it, and that was a fun feeling, too. Steve grunted. Bucky went back to searching. “You could if you tried. But you like it. You like everybody looking at you.”

Steve didn’t respond. Bucky found the yeast in the drawer with the takeout menus which seemed like a weird place to put yeast. But of course it was there because of logic: if he put the yeast in the pantry with the flour, there might be a leak. And if there were a leak, the yeast and the flour might combine with the water and create a dough that would rise up and suffocate him and Steve in their sleep.

Ergo: takeout drawer.

“Hold this,” he said, pressing the yeast jar into Steve’s outstretched hand.

Bucky went to find the rest of his ingredients. Something to prove the dough (what was it proving, exactly?), water, salt. Something to make them taste better than okay. He opened the fridge and stood in front of it, blank, forgetting where he was, focusing on the bright red of the strawberries which reminded him of something else.

“Whatcha looking for, Buck?” Steve’s voice cut in. Steve was there. Bucky was home in the kitchen with the Eye-talian marble and a backsplash which looked like one that the robot twin brothers on the television might have picked out.

“Something for the breadsticks.”

Steve shifted his weight minutely; Bucky fought the urge to tell him not to move. “Sweet or savory?”

“They’re _breadsticks_.” Like it was obvious.

“So what about the sun-dried tomatoes?”

Steve. So smart. So helpful. Bucky didn’t go out often - too many people, too many looks. He’d tried it once, and it ended with an international incident, so he mostly stayed in these days. Unless it was lunch with Sam and Natasha. The problem was, he was hooked on the cooking thing. He liked tasting every single ingredient before putting them into his recipes. Liked the raw textures. Sitting with the finished product later, picking it apart. Deciding if he could taste the raw stuff still. Like he could crack each molecule open and look inside and say ah, there’s the fucking paprika. Steve knew this. Understood this. Brought Bucky presents from every gourmet grocery store he passed in his line of work.

(“How’d you get the sun-dried tomatoes home from Italy, Stevie? Didn’t they stop you at customs?”

“Crammed ‘em up my ass just for you, pal.”

“Such a sweetheart. C’mere and gimme a kiss.”)

He pulled the jar out and set it on the counter, reaching over to ruffle Steve’s hair. “Such a good boy, helping me out.”

“Thanks, Buck.”

Bucky made a noncommittal noise, getting out the scale to weigh the flour. Some of it flew out of the bag and landed near Steve’s face which made him wrinkle up his nose like he was going to sneeze.

“Don’t sneeze.”

Steve sneezed.

Bucky fisted a hand in Steve’s hair and pulled his head up, kissing him hard. Sucking on the tip of his tongue before releasing him. “Told you not to sneeze.”

“Sorry, Buck.” Steve didn’t look sorry.

“Eyeballs and sneezes. You’re in big trouble, you know.”

“Yeah.” He had a grin on his face like he was finally tall enough to ride a rollercoaster. Bucky let him go so he could rest his cheek on the countertop again.

Flour and yeast. Salt on the other side of the bowl from the yeast because they don’t touch until you start mixing. That was the rule. Just add water, turn the mixer on and watch the dough begin to come together. Rules, science, a release of the anxiety in Bucky’s stomach because it happened the same every time and that was a comfort.

“Thanks for holding the yeast,” he said. Steve still had his hand wrapped securely around the jar. Such a useful tool.

“Sure thing, Buck. Need me to do anything else?”

“Nah,” he said, bending down so his cheek pressed against the marble and he could look into Steve’s eyes. “Just need you to remember who you belong to and who gets to look at you. Cause you forget. Like I said.”

Steve huffed out a breath, sending some flour particles into the air. “You know I’m not asking for the attention.”

“Sure you are,” Bucky said, pressing his lips to Steve’s forehead, bringing his flesh hand up to dig into the meat of Steve’s shoulder. Tension and stress like a rubber band stretched too tight over the muscle. Steve groaned, Bucky grinned. “You go out there and do your USO show, and they flock to you. ‘Oh, Cap, you’re so handsome you’re so brave you’re so good.’ And you never say…”

The mixer was making a noise like Steve in the morning, so Bucky stood up and added more water, not wanting the dough to fail. He needed those breadsticks.

“Never say what?” Steve prompted.

Bucky blinked. He’d forgotten. “I forgot.”

Another impudent little wiggle of Steve’s hips had Bucky rolling his eyes. “Hold still. You’ll mess up my dough.”

Steve rolled his eyes right back, so Bucky dug around under the island until he found a half-sheet pan, resting it on Steve’s back so it lay right across the little dip, balanced precariously with his utility belt getting in the way. Same belt was probably digging into his hips from the front, what with the marble and all.

Good.

“Don’t drop that,” Bucky said. “I gotta put the breadsticks on it later.”

“Bucky…” Steve sounded like he was going to laugh. Bucky felt like laughing, too, so he did.

“My fuckin’ breadsticks, Steve. Don’t insult my methodology.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The dough looked sufficiently dough-y now, Bucky decided. Time to knead. Sometimes he liked to do it with his hands, but today he had other things to worry about, so he turned the speed up on the mixer and set a timer for five minutes before picking up a wooden spoon and going to stand behind Steve.

“Don’t drop that sheet pan,” he said, before beginning to smack Steve’s ass with the spoon. Not as hard as he could, not as fast as he could, but enough that Steve’s free hand was gripping the counter and his not-free hand was squeezing the yeast jar to the point of potential injury. To the yeast, not to Steve.

“Don’t break my jar.” Bucky smacked him on the inside of the thigh because Steve never did anything by half-measures and had spread his legs almost the instant Bucky had started wailing on him. “Don’t crack the countertop.” Another smack to the opposite side.

“Fuck _off._ ”

“I’m not even hitting you that hard!” Bucky hit him harder. “This is just to remind you that I can. Whenever I want to. Because you’re mine, not theirs.”

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry I was letting people look at me, Buck, Jesus.”

The timer went off, and Bucky pulled back mid-swing. As he walked by Steve’s face, he held the spoon’s handle in front of his mouth and smiled. “Open.” Steve did. Bucky pushed the wood right into his mouth, pressing it back until he resembled the world’s spangliest horse with a bit between its teeth. “Hold that for me, would ya, buddy?”

Steve made a noise. Bucky went to check on his dough. Pretty good. He dumped in as many sun-dried tomatoes as he wanted, putting the mixer on low and letting them incorporate. Then, he began greasing the sides of the plastic container he used for proofing.

The word proofing was really bothering him. He’d have to look up the etymology later. Proofing. Proving. What was the dough proving? Was it a theorem? Was it im-proving itself? Was it proof that the yeast was working?

He balanced the greased container on Steve’s upper back, splitting the difference between trapezius muscles and grinning down at him. “Don’t drop _that_ either.”

Steve looked ridiculous, but Bucky liked him better than the marble for a countertop. Humming to himself, he stopped the mixer and pulled the dough out, kneading it a couple times by hand to get the sun-dried tomatoes more evenly distributed before dropping it with a wet plop into the container on Steve’s back.

“Gotta prove for an hour,” he said solemnly. “You think you can hold it that long?”

Steve groaned around the spoon handle. Bucky patted his cheek reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’m just having you on, Stevie m’boy. I got other plans.” Leaning down, he kissed Steve’s cheek before pulling the dough container off his back, covering it with some plastic wrap, and sticking it in the oven. Safer there; peace to prove.

Bucky set a timer and looked at Steve, who was doing a real good job of not dropping the sheet pan. Probably deserved a reward.

“Stand up and take your Cap’n Crunch off,” he instructed, hopping up on the counter to sit. “Warts and all.” Reaching over, he plucked the sheet pan off Steve’s back but didn’t bother to remove the spoon from his mouth. Wasn’t interested in hearing him complain about how he didn’t look like Cap’n Crunch. Bucky knew he didn’t; wasn’t stupid. But he’d seen the little cartoon mascot on the cereal box and he liked it, and he _extra_ liked how much it pissed Steve off to be compared to said little cartoon mascot. So he kept doing it.  

Steve stood up and started jumping around like an elephant training as a ballerina, the suit pushed down to his waist before he’d even started on his boots. So now he was wriggling and hopping and probably putting on a show for Bucky’s benefit but that was alright, it had Bucky laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe, and when Steve finished stripping off he was still giggling. He held out a hand and Steve took it, stepping close to stand between Bucky’s legs.

Bucky pressed a kiss to Steve’s handle-filled mouth, licking in, the not-unpleasant taste of the wood clinging to his tongue when he did. Steve was gonna drool, so Bucky pushed the spoon in further when he pulled back from the kiss, watching with satisfaction as the spit that had been pooling in the corner of Steve’s mouth spilled over.

“Such a mess,” Bucky sighed, reaching his hand between Steve’s legs to grab him by the balls and squeeze, more teasing than torture. The wooden handle started to splinter as Steve bit down. “You like that, huh?”

Steve nodded. Bucky squeezed harder, Steve going up on his tip-toes. Still a goddamn elephant ballerina.

“Whose are these?”

“Rrs, fck.”

Bucky dug his middle finger into the seam of Steve’s sack which caused him to let out a very unmanly squeak.

“Sorry, couldn’t understand that, punk. You gotta learn to arr-tee-cue-layte.”

Steve glared at him and pronounced his words slower, like the spoon in his mouth wasn’t gonna fuck him up all over again. “Rrrrrrrs, fffffck.”

Wasn’t his fault. B was a hard sound when you couldn’t quite press your lips together.

“Huh. Guess you forgot.” Releasing his balls, Bucky gave him only a moment’s reprieve before smacking him pretty hard between the legs, taking full advantage of that vulnerability.

Steve howled and dropped the spoon. Bucky wasted no time, picking the utensil up and bending Steve over his knee, best he could from that angle, shoving his face against the countertop and taking a stripe out of his ass until he was hollering fit to beat the band, kicking his legs like that was gonna do him a goddamn bit of good.

Bucky lay off eventually, resting the spoon on Steve’s lower back and grabbing his balls again, not wanting him to forget the lesson. “Whose?”

“Yours!”

Bucky let him go. “There. Was that so hard?” Twisting his torso, Bucky leaned down and pressed a kiss to Steve’s shoulder. Then a bite, tugging on his skin and touching his tongue to the mark.

“No, Buck. Sorry. I shoulda known better.”

“Ain’t that the goddamn truth.” He sat back up and gave Steve one more swat on the ass for good measure. Steve jerked his hips against Bucky’s cotton-clad thigh and yeah, of _course_ he was hard. Steve could get it up from a stiff breeze, so Bucky blistering his ass with a wooden spoon was obviously gonna get him hard enough to hammer nails.

Hey, now there was an idea. Steve’s prick in a toolbox, Bucky on the roof fixing shingles. His brain caught on the logistics of that particular scenario long enough that he almost didn’t realize Steve was rubbing himself off against Bucky’s leg. Dumbass.

“Oh, Stevie,” he said, mournful and disappointed. “I say you could do that?”

“Feels good,” said the impudent little shit who never learned a lesson in his goddamn life.

“Yeah, I bet it does. So stop.” Because Bucky was mad at Steve, so this wasn’t really about Steve feeling good. Or, at least, it wasn’t about that _yet_. As it happened, Bucky’s johnson was only marginally interested in the proceedings. Some days he was raring to go, other days no amount of loving attention from Steve could get him to perk up and play. This in-between state was becoming more and more of the usual, though. Maybe that _was_ normal? Maybe Steve and his Perpetual Pecker of Patriotism was the anomaly? Bucky didn’t know; didn’t care.

“Don’t feel like it.”

So Bucky shoved him down to the floor and put his bare right foot on Steve’s chest, standing over him like he’d just won a prize fight and Steve was down for the count. “Doesn’t matter what you feel like, angelface,” he said, lifting his foot and pressing it against Steve’s face just to see what he’d do.

Turned out, he’d lick a stripe up Bucky’s instep and make him shriek with laughter. Steve grinned and did it again, then used his big, warm hands to lift Bucky’s foot, biting at his ankle, right on the Achilles tendon. Bucky let out a hiss.

“Knockitoff and get on your hands and knees,” Bucky said instead of shoving his toes into Steve’s mouth like he wanted to. Maybe another time.

Steve heaved himself over like the world’s oldest, saddest golden retriever, back bowed, spreading his legs wide like he thought Bucky wanted the view. Which, he did, but Steve didn’t have to be so _obvious_ about it. His ass was bright red, though Bucky knew it’d fade by the time the breadsticks were done baking. Still, he was pretty enough for a picture.

“Stay,” he said and went to fetch the vintage Holga Steve had bought him at a flea market when Bucky’d said he wanted to be an artist, too.

The camera was lousy and let in a ton of light. “More artistic that way,” Steve had insisted. Bucky didn’t care about artistry, no matter what he’d claimed, but he liked the bathroom they’d turned into a darkroom and the chance to have something of Steve that nobody else could have. He squirreled his pictures away in a cigar box tucked into his sock drawer and never even let Steve see them. Because why would Steve need to see photos of himself, when all of him was Bucky’s and he knew it?

He took pictures of Steve’s raw backside. His prick, his posture, his pretty face. He shoved the spoon back in Steve’s mouth and lay underneath him, taking a picture from an angle he’d never tried before. Had Steve kneel up, hands in front of his chest, Bucky snapping shot after shot of him begging. World’s least obedient dog.

Bucky took the spoon out and kissed him while he was begging, wrapping a hand around his prick and pumping slowly, teasingly until Steve was practically purring. So now he was a kitten and Bucky released him, satisfied with the wet smack his cock made as it slapped against his taut stomach.

“That’s mine, too,” he said, leaning in and biting down on Steve’s bottom lip, stretching it out as far as it would go before releasing it and watching Steve visibly deflate. “All your orgasms, all that spunk you got in there? That’s mine, and I say when you can have it.”

“Jesus, Bucky,” Steve whined.

Bucky smiled and got to his feet. Went to check the timer. Fifteen minutes left. The photoshoot had taken longer than he’d realized. Time was difficult.

“You think if I let you come on the dough, that’d taste good?” Bucky mused, spreading out some flour on the marble so he could press the dough out before he cut it into breadstick-shapes. “Knead your jizz in and serve ‘em at a dinner party?”

“ _Jesus_ , Bucky.”

He glanced over. Steve’s cheeks were red and he looked real cute, sitting back on his heels, hands fisted on his thighs. His cock was obscene, all pinked up and proud like it’d done something worth being so impressive. Bucky wanted to sink his teeth into it just to hear the noises Steve might make. Steve was funny when he acted like he didn’t want Bucky to do something.

“I can’t decide,” Bucky said. “Stand up and jerk yourself off and I’ll see if I wanna use the raw materials.”

Steve stood up, wrapped a hand around his dick and started pumping.

“Not there, Stevie, come on...I’m not putting my dough on the _floor_. Jizz on the counter like a civilized person, huh?”

Steve came closer, going up on his toes so he could angle his prick. Said, “God, you’re so fucking rude to me.”

So Bucky stuck the wooden spoon between his teeth again and fingered his ass with vegetable oil until Steve came all over the marble, though luckily for him not on the part Bucky had painstakingly floured.

“Hmm,” Bucky said. “Pretty good turnout there. I guess I’d need about a tablespoon for a dozen jizz-sticks.”

Steve rolled his eyes, so Bucky pressed his index finger against his prostate again, watching with satisfaction as Steve’s hips jerked against the countertop, still-half-stiff prick smacking the marble.

“You’re insatiable,” Bucky said. “I love you.”

Steve grinned around the spoon; Bucky pulled his finger out of Steve’s ass and went to wash his hands. One minute left on the timer.

“Hands over your head, up on your toes. Hold position.” He didn’t have time to give Steve a lot to do, but he still wanted him to be working for Bucky’s approval. On his toes, literally and figuratively. That thought made Bucky giggle, turning off the timer and reaching into the oven to pull out the fully-proved dough.

“Good job, dough,” he whispered to it. “You proved yourself.”

Steve snorted; Bucky reached over and slapped his stomach, leaving a handprint behind. Steve made a fun noise when he did that, so he did it again.

“Knock it off, asshole, I’m supposed to be kneading the dough, not _your_ dough.” Steve didn’t have any dough, not really. Sure was pasty, though - even super serum couldn’t fight those Irish genes.

“Frry,” Steve mush-mouthed.

Bucky ignored Steve and set the oven to preheat at 425 degrees. Not 420. Not 430. 425. Baking was a science, not an art - probably why he was good at it and Steve was lousy. “Make yourself useful, put that dumb silicone thing in the sheet pan. Then hold it up for me.”

Steve did his chore while Bucky pressed the dough out into a rectangle, careful to keep the air in - gotta keep the air in or the dough suffocates and dies. Can’t kill the dough.

He glanced at Steve once he had the sheet pan held out in front of him like a cater-waiter. “Did I say you could stand on flat feet?”

“Nnn, fck.”

“Get on your goddamn toes and do your job.”

Steve did. Bucky carefully cut the dough into sticks and arranged them on the silicone mat, taking his sweet time so that Steve’s muscled calves might start to ache. Probably wouldn’t, but a guy could dream.

He studied the last stick for a while, considering, glancing from the dough, to Steve, to the cooling splatters on the countertop. Deliberately, slowly, he reached over and swiped a finger through the mess (leaving a considerable amount behind), then drew a line right down the center of the breadstick.

Steve’s eyes went wide; Bucky couldn’t see his prick right at that moment but he had to imagine it twitched. Bucky grinned. Of _course_ Steve liked it: Steve was Bucky’s, and Bucky liked it. Ergo, Steve was obli-fuckin’-gated.

“That’s yours,” Bucky said, sweet as pie as he laid the jizz-stick out with the others. “You’re gonna eat that one later, okay?”

Steve nodded, a strangled sort of whine caught in his throat.

“Go put them in the oven. Don’t forget which one’s yours. And set a timer for twelve minutes.”

Bucky hopped up on the counter while Steve slid the tray into the oven, then beeped and booped on the buttons until the timer was counting down twelve whole minutes. Steve turned around, expectant, and Bucky smiled.

“C’mere,” Bucky beckoned, crooking a finger and spreading his legs so Steve could slot between them again. Bucky reached up and pulled the spoon from between Steve’s teeth, using the sleeve of his sweatshirt to wipe away the accumulated saliva.

“Buck…” Steve started.

“Shh.” He kissed him, sweet and slow, his tongue exploring every inch of Steve’s pliant, willing mouth. His Steve, nobody else’s. Bucky didn’t like it when he was on the television but kissing him here in their personality-free kitchen reminded him that Steve wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was he.

Maybe it wasn’t a breakthrough, but it got him out of his head.

“Made a mess,” he murmured, releasing Steve and knocking their foreheads together, grinding their frontal bones until they were both wincing.

“Want me to lick it up?” Steve asked like the idea had just come to him; like he hadn’t probably been thinking about it since he’d made the mess in the first place.

Hadn’t initially been in Bucky’s plans, but hell, he liked it when Steve got creative. “Mmm,” Bucky nodded. “Guess you better.”

Steve grinned before pulling away and bending down to flatten his tongue against his mess. The knot around Bucky’s heart loosened and he found he could breathe easier. This Steve wasn’t Cap’n Crunch on the television. Sometimes that guy made Bucky forget about this guy - this guy who was as weird as Bucky, got the same crazy notions - begging on the floor, getting his ass spanked raw, licking his own come off their dull marble countertops. This guy was Bucky’s guy. Bucky loved him more than anyone had ever been able to make him hate anything.

He hopped off the counter, plastering himself to Steve’s broad back, kissing him all over his shoulders as Steve finished lapping up the mess he’d made.

“Love you,” Bucky muttered, butting his head against Steve’s neck and mashing his face against the skin there. “Love you, love you.”

Steve sighed, standing up and turning around, smoothing a hand over Bucky’s back as he tucked him under his chin and kissed the top of his head. “I know, pal,” he murmured, breath warm against Bucky’s scalp. “Love you, too. I’m yours, okay? Just yours.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, nipping at the skin of Steve’s collarbone.

Steve held him until the timer went off. They cuddled on the couch while the breadsticks cooled, Bucky’s face pressed against Steve’s naked stomach, Steve stroking his hair, both of them in a dwam, hypnotized by one another.

Later, when the breadsticks were ready and they’d made pasta to go with them, Steve held up that one _special_ breadstick and grinned at Bucky across the dining room table.

“You don’t gotta,” Bucky said like a dare.

Steve crammed half of the jizz-stick in his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Blinked.

“How’s it taste?”

“Kinda nutty.”

Bucky howled, reaching across to grab the other half and shoving it past his lips because he wanted a piece of Steve inside of him. Transubstantiation, maybe. Lock Steve into his blood and his bones.

Steve watched him, eyes dark. When Bucky swallowed, he cleared his throat. “Wanna see if this table can handle us?”

Bucky shrugged. Probably he did.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading - hope you enjoyed! If you'd like to hang out on Tumblr, I'm at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com). This story has its [own post](https://icantbelieveitsnotlucy.tumblr.com/post/170658416802/title-vague-fancies-carnal-appetites) if you enjoyed it and are inclined to a reblog.
> 
> Shoutout to my betas [Crockzilla](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crockzilla) and [Chemegeek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chemegeek) for diving in headfirst on this one. Y'all are the best!


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